


previews of death.

by Anorkie



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Drugs, Eating Disorders, Nathan's infatuation with Rachel but mostly guilt, This is kinda dark I guess I don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 11:06:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8246606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anorkie/pseuds/Anorkie
Summary: He creeps up behind you, a shadow, overwhelming and flickering against the heat of your uncertainty. His breath tickles your neck as he slides a camera into your trembling hands. Your heart skips a beat, or maybe it stops altogether. “Go on.” His voice is wind chimes on the eve of a storm.You take the shot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't really finished, but in all honesty this is as finished as it's going to get. I wrote the bulk of it months ago but my productivity kept dwindling. I thought it would be a shame to not share what I had already written though. I hope it's not too confusing.

You love Rachel Amber.

She is the satisfaction you feel when you capture the perfect mood, lighting and angle in a single shot. She is the smoke flowing from your contracting lungs, pouring beautifully, endlessly out your mouth and nose. She is the nimble weight against your hips, your back, your chest. She is soft hues illuminating your surly features when dusk turns to dawn. She is solace when your thoughts become too loud and you are a mess of nerves. No one else will look at you like Rachel does. No one else cares to.

She is everything.

 

 

 

Although you catch glimpses of her around school, you do not officially meet her until pacing around outside of Frank’s RV with a wad of cash stuffed in your pocket. Frank’s stupid mutt growls at you throughout the whole exchange. You were already jittery as all hell and the noise sets you off. Frank knocks you on your ass, but only after you threaten to shoot his dog. He whips out a switchblade, daunting you, daring you. The truth is, you don’t have a gun. Rachel moves out of the RV and to Frank’s side like lightening, whisking him away to another universe with her gaze alone.

The way she leans against him and tilts her head to whisper suggests a closeness you are almost jealous to witness. Whatever she says, it is enough to make the man dismiss you with a wave of his hand and a stern reminder to not fuck with him or his dog again. When he is gone, Rachel smiles as she offers to help you up.

Her hand sends a warmth up your arm that quells your shaking in an instant. By the time you are on your feet, you are under her spell.

 

 

 

After classes, she leads you to the local diner, beach or graveyard. Sometimes, she takes you to the football field on campus.

She tells you about her dreams of making it big in Los Angeles. She is not tall enough by model standards, you think, but you don’t say that. Besides, she could convince any agency to put her on the cover of a magazine by simply bating her eyes in their direction. You’re sure of that.

She walks along the bleachers with outstretched arms. The light of the setting sun blurs the edges of her figure and seeps through the cracks of her hair. Looking at her, you feel weightless. She could be an angel.

When she asks you about your dreams, you tell her you don’t have any. When she asks why, you tell her it’s because the possibilities are endless; you need more time to think on them. This is a lie, of course. (But, if she was a dream, you would choose her.)

 

 

  
He creeps up behind you, a shadow, overwhelming and flickering against the heat of your uncertainty. His breath tickles your neck as he slides a camera into your trembling hands. Your heart skips a beat, or maybe it stops altogether. The equipment is expensive, delicate and you are fidgeting, fidgeting, fidgeting. How can he trust you right now? How can he trust you not to fuck up ( _like you always do_ )?

He clasps your wrists in an attempt to quell your shaking. His hands on your skin, gloved or not, do nothing to calm you.

“Go on.” His voice is wind chimes on the eve of a storm.

A thousand emotions writhe behind Rachel’s beautiful, blurry eyes – layers of fear, anger, regret, disgust. But, most of all, betrayal. Her voice plays in your head like a mantra, a broken record, “How could you, Nate? I trusted you.”

You take the shot.

 

 

 

You wake up with leaves in your hair, dirt up your nose and surrounded by debris. Sitting up is difficult; your head feels like it weighs a ton. The sound of metal hacking dirt is harsh on your ears and only adds to the weight. You need to puke, or scream, or cry until there is nothing left inside of you. Anything to alleviate the pressure driving you to the ground.

“You’re awake. Good,” says a voice. Then, “Get up.”

“I can’t,” you practically whine.

Your feet abruptly meet ground as you are hoisted by the collar of your shirt. The action leaves you hacking and unable to clench whatever is being thrust into your hands. It is a shovel, you soon realize, and the person handing it to you is Jefferson. He looks slightly disheveled. His suit is stained and his glasses are smudged and, for a man usually so tidy, the offset of his appearance concerns you.

The headlights of his car illuminate the plot of land around you and him. There is a very recently dug hole of only a foot or so deep. Trash encompasses it in a semi-circle.

You do not know the reason why you are at the junkyard with Jefferson at this hour, or at all for that matter. You do not recall getting into his car. You do not recall the origin of this pounding headache. Until you do.

You notice the body bag. With eyes alone, you plead Jefferson to give you a reasonable explanation. Instead, he looks right through you as you stand, unbalanced and clutching the shovel so tightly it leaves splinters. He knows the moment you know. The horror is plain on your face as you recall the beginning and middle of a story you do not want to know the end of. A sharp pain in your stomach sends you reeling backwards. The shovel falls in time with you. Your entire body contorts violently as you scream and kick and whack the side of your head against the ground as hard as possible. For a moment, you see Rachel’s face as clear as day through the blue plastic. Her eyes are wide and foggy and terrified. You imagine bugs invading the softest parts of her skin.

Before you can scream again, Jefferson gathers you into his arms and tightly holds you against him, stifling your movements and cries. You are too hot and you can’t breathe and you can’t push him away from you, no matter how hard you try. He is speaking, but you can’t hear him over your own voice. Though muffled, you yell every profanity you can think of into the fabric of his clothes. Your face is sticky with snot and spit and maybe even the dampness your heated breath leaves behind. You aren’t looking at her anymore, you can’t, but you can still see her. Rachel soon-to-be underground. Rachel in the body bag. Rachel drugged out of her mind. Rachel in the Dark Room.

With time, you no longer have the strength to demand to be let go or fight back. Jefferson coerces you into quiet obedience with persistence and persistence alone. He eases up on his hold on you, lets you breathe. You suck in air and gasp so hard it hurts. For a moment you sit there, dumb, before completely giving in to the sobs that wrack your body. Jefferson appears weary – annoyed, even. Like he has just dealt with a child throwing a temper tantrum. Disappointment highlights his wrinkles and makes you cry even harder.

 

 

 

From the passenger seat of the car, with your arms folded tightly over your chest, you watch Rachel Amber disappear into the ground forever.

Jefferson starts the car and drives away, wordless. Ambiance falls between you and him and it is the loudest noise you have ever heard. You half-expect to be dropped off at Blackwell but say nothing when he goes speeding passed it.

With a firm hand on your upper arm, he leads you through the front door of his house and into one of the bathrooms. You can walk fine on your own, you think, but maybe he does this just in case you faint (or run). Either way, he walks too fast and it’s a struggle to keep up. He instructs you to take off your clothes. You would protest or, at the very least, hesitate, but you do not want/need another reason to be looked at like a failure. You do as your told as swiftly as humanly possible.

You stop when you are down to your underwear.

“Everything.” He doesn’t even look at you when he says it. He splashes water onto his face and runs a dampened hand through unruly hair.

You swallow hard. You do as you’re told. The moment the last article of clothing hits the tile, Jefferson gathers up every last bit of it with one hand and turns on hot shower water with the other. You step under the running water without being told. He leaves the door wide open when he goes.

There are soaps and shampoos lining the shower, begging to be used. You do not know what you are allowed to touch and, even if you did, you would still keep your hands to yourself. The heat makes your muscles twitch, unclogs your nose and throat. You do not realize how much filth you were covered in until you see it spiraling down the drain. There is dirt stuck under your nails. Your fingers are too pruned to pick out the splinters. What happened in the junkyard?

The water turns cold. You find a clean towel to pat yourself dry and wrap yourself in. You catch yourself in the mirror, but you are merely a shape in its foggy reflection. A blur. There is music playing as you walk into the living room. It is barely a whisper compared to your thoughts but unmistakably there. You nearly walk by Jefferson, who is tucked against a couch and reading a book. His clothes are different. On a table, there is an open wine bottle and a full glass beside it. The bottle appears half-empty. You can’t help but wonder if it was full when he picked it out.

“Your clothes are drying,” he says, once again lacking eye contact. He gestures to a folded shirt on the table. Dismissing the shirt as a few sizes too big would be an understatement; it practically ends at your knees. You can’t help but be grateful, though.

You find a place on the couch – the corner, specifically – to curl up into. This is not the first time you have been inside of Mark Jefferson’s house. Though, every time, it certainly feels like it. Now is no exception. Usually, when you are being ignored by him, you can concentrate on the small details of the furniture or carpet or architecture. These are the moments curiosity is your savior; the way your medication is supposed to be but isn’t. Though, as much as you want it to, curiosity will do you no favors tonight.

“Are you gonna kill me?” You don’t know why you ask this. It has been a question swimming around your subconscious, perhaps. Maybe you just want to startle him into looking at you.

“Please.” Access denied. “If that was my intention, do you think I would have brought you here?”

His voice is calm enough to trick you into calmness. Almost. His demeanor is the exact opposite of a man who just dropped the body of an innocent, beautiful girl into a… In an effort to keep yourself from panicking, you expel several shaky breaths before asking your next question.

“Why did you kill Rachel?” Your voice cracks enough to be noticeable.

His eyes flicker from the book to you. You could melt under his gaze if his response wasn’t so terrifying.

“Oh, Nathan,” he says with an underlying tone of pity. He sets the book aside and gestures for you to come closer. Cautiously, you allow him wrap his arm around your shoulders. You can’t shake the thought and feel of his death grip on you from earlier.

“It was an accident,” he says. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says.

“What?” You jolt at his words, his tone, but his hand keeps you in place.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says again. “You didn’t know what you were doing.”

The world spins. Maybe it topples off its axis completely. Jefferson is implying dangerous things – too dangerous for your mind to digest at this time, or any other time. The weight of him on you is suddenly too much. You phase through the couch, the floor, the very earth and you do not stop there. You know too much, yet not enough.

He drops you off at your dorm a few hours later. When he pats your back it feels like a shove. Victoria is in your room. She snaps her fingers in front of your face and tries to say something but her words turn into buzzing flies. You collapse against the mattress.

 

 

 

  
Kate Marsh is a mistake.

You had not expected the drugs to affect her so heavily. For the longest time, the other members of the Vortex Club find her behavior hilarious. Pictures and videos are taken between their bouts of laughter. Victoria keeps trying to show you something on her phone, but you are too focused on Kate and how she floats from one person to the next, sharing sloppy kisses and breathy giggles.

A small group of girls, no one you recognize, approach Kate. They wear worried expressions and reach out to her tenderly. You swoop in, bring her close like she is something to protect and allow words of concern to possess your tongue. Not convinced, one of the girls steps forward and asks how you know Kate; she has never seen you two together before.

“We’re dating,” is the first thing to come from your mouth. You squeeze her ass possessively. She sinks against your chest and snickers. “Keep your whore mouth shut about this or I’ll have you and your friends kicked out of Blackwell. You get me?”

You get nasty looks before the girls regroup and rejoin the bustling mass of bodies. Your pretend girlfriend says something to you, but her voice is quiet and slurred and nothing over the deafening music. All you know for sure is, she can barely stand on her own. That, and there is over an hour before midnight strikes. She won’t last that long.

You practically drag Kate off the dance floor and across the parking lot to your car. She climbs into the passenger seat and, after a few failed attempts, buckles her seat belt. She claps at her success and playfully asks where the two of you are going, over and over again. Your hands are unsteady against the steering wheel.

“For a drive,” you finally tell her. Surprisingly, this answer sates her curiosity. Unsure of what to do, or where to go, you drive throughout the entirety of Arcadia Bay. The radio plays whichever CD you had put in this morning. You are so focused on the road that the words, as well as the exact time Kate dozes off, are unknown to you.

 

 

 

You are a bystander as Jefferson shoots Kate.

Like a vulture, he circles her slowly, capturing bits and pieces of her unconscious form. He redirects her limbs and posture like she is more object than human. Once or twice, you see her eyelashes fluttering. Albeit very little, she moves on her own accord. A shiver runs down your spine when Jefferson notices what you notice. The concentration is sucked from his face and replaced with aggravation.

“Why is she moving so soon?” His voice is even.

“I don’t know.” Bad answer. Fix it. “I didn’t want to give her too much, you know?”

Kate groans. Before she can flop onto her back, Jefferson presses the heel of his shoe against her hip. He talks to her like she is conscious and completely aware of her situation. She is not. When she moves again, he yells. She flinches.

“Is this about Rachel?” His voice regains that calm – that so-easy-to-believe – composure.

Dread seizes your body when you realize how badly you want to yell at him. Of course this is about Rachel. Everything is. Instead of doing something you will surely regret, you nod. The motion is quiet, calm and inherently blameless.

You silently retreat to the couch, take off your jacket and watch as Kate loses her wings.

 

 

 

You order two large fries, five cheeseburgers, three six-piece chicken nuggets, and a chocolate milkshake without missing a beat. Like you have done this a thousand times before. You end up with an extra burger because the cashier fucked up your order. You scarf it down as quickly as the others. Jefferson looks awkward sitting across from you. He doesn’t seem to belong in a fast food joint. He makes more sense sitting down at a café, sipping a pretentious drink and typing idly at a laptop. You stare at him as you shove the last of the fries into your mouth. You want him to look at you. You want blistering acknowledgment as you say, “This is all your fault, fucker.”

He does not grant you an opportunity. He looks at literally everything else – his phone, the chairs, the windows, the people walking outside, the cars stuck in traffic – but you. Suddenly, you are five years old again and trying to get your father’s attention. It never comes.

On the drive home, you dump pills (a dozen, at least) onto your palm. Jefferson hears them rattle against the bottle; you can tell by the way his lip twitches. You are not allowed to light up or pop pills in his car. These won’t give you a high, though. These are to remedy all the junk you just shoved down your throat. He understands this – you think – because, instead of scolding you, he retrieves a water bottle from a cup holder and offers it to you. You can take your pills dry – you usually do – but seldom are Jefferson’s small moments of tolerance. When you finish, one of his hands clasp the base of your head. You flinch hard. Even after the acute realization that he is, in fact, running his fingers through your hair _gently_ and definitely not harming you, shock keeps you alert.

You can practically feel the capsules swimming around in your stomach.

 

 

 

You dream about a storm destroying Arcadia Bay. Lampposts and billboards twirl like fans, decapitating buildings and the people cowering inside them. The bay is a cesspool of debris and bodies and fiery oil. Dead fish litter the coastline. You are at the center of it all and it is the most enlightening experience you have ever had.

 

 

 

Victoria is blowing up your phone.

 

 

 

He circles around you. He is predator. You are prey. There was never a moment that transpired between Nathan Prescott and Mark Jefferson that did not lead up to this outcome.

You feel yourself being shifted, turned and stroked but you cannot distinguish where or when or how often. You hear yourself being gently praised and encouraged but you do not know what for.

 

 

 

Rachel lets you drug her.

You inject yourself first to show her it is safe. You mean her no harm. The two of you had idly been smoking cigarettes prior. After you pull the needle away, she leans in close to blow smoke between your parted lips. You cough trying to suck it in. She laughs. Tears rimming your eyelids, you laugh too.

Eyes closed and head lightly bobbing, she mouths the words to whatever song playing on the radio. The screen of your projector displays a slideshow of some of your all-time favorite photographs. The images bath the room in a dull glow. Rachel’s expression appears delicate against the light.

All thing considered, the lighting is awful. Amateur, at best. You scoop your camera into your hands regardless and take the shot. Rachel turns her head at the click. A slow smile eases across her face.

 _I wanna show you something cool_ , you tell her.

She practically races you to your car, giggling the whole time. You feel unsteady behind the wheel. You should not be driving – not like this. The only thing that keeps you alert is her voice, which is at ease and on edge all at once.

You show her the barn. The secret entrance. You hold her hand as you lead her down the staircase. She says it all seems like something out of a movie. She teases you about the surplus of canned goods. _Preparing for the end of the world, Prescott?_

When she sees the backdrop and the equipment, she detaches herself from you to wander. You watch her expression go from awestruck to confused to enticed. Finally, she circles back to you with eyes bleary and wild. She practically begs you to take her picture, please, you see her like no one else ever has.

Telling her no is not an option.

You retrieve Jefferson’s camera from the corner desk. It feels heavy in your hands, dangerous. It may as well be a ticking time bomb. 

 

 

Her skin is cloudless skies before a storm. You are wax against her burning tongue. She moves too fast for you to keep up – she always has – but continually fills in the gaps you cannot. When you fumble with the buttons of your shirt, her hands replace yours. Her top is gone and you realize you have never seen so much of her.

The slamming of a door and the tapping of shoes regains your sensibility. Rachel hops off of you, flushed and half-naked. Her eyes fumble from you to the noise. The silhouette of a monster comes into view.

You know how the rest of this story goes.

 

 

 

The darkness enveloping you is unrelenting, heavy. It sticks to your limbs like oil. It clogs your pores and pollutes the little consciousness you have left.

Though slight, you can feel vibrations. You’re moving. You’re not.

You go dark again.

 

 

 

  
This situation is familiar. The smell of the junkyard is uncanny. The sound of metal shoveling away at dirt is startling. This has already happened. The only difference is you. This time, you are the body to be buried.

Blindly, your run.

 

 

 

“You think you could get away with what you did to those poor girls?” That wasn’t you. “What you did to Rachel?” _That wasn’t you._

His voice is thunder, the drums of a storm, a preview of what is to come. You trip over – it could be anything – a broken bottle, a shredded tire, a dead animal, Rachel’s shallow grave. The ends of your jeans get caught on something, something sharp and you tug and scramble to recover any ounce of balance you had. You stumble through a doorway and into a small structure. There are writings and drawings covering the walls and, even though they all read and depict different ideas, they blend together for a moment. You see the word _RUN_ all around you. You see arrows sloppily scrawled and pointing to a window. A bullet wizzes through the air, hits concrete, sends tremors up your spine as you jump through the opening.

Blurriness still clings to the edges of your vision, but you can see train tracks. They appear luminous under the moon (moons?), beckoning you to come closer, offering a sanctuary you are too diluted to understand.

 A monster dressed as a man, stuffed into a suit and spewing lies.

 Rachel colliding into you, pulling you into an embrace and lifting you up, up and away from every mistake you have ever made.

 Maybe you run. Maybe you run fast enough, far enough to escape Jefferson and Arcadia Bay and your ever-inattentive father. You find a way to replace the contents of Rachel’s grave with the emptiness dwelling in your chest. You move on.

Maybe you run until your body succumbs to the drugs. Maybe you only get as far as the beach and collapse onto the shoreline. You die alongside the rotting whales. Flies share your body and nature makes its peace.

Maybe you are shot by Jefferson as the trains goes flying by. Your gasps are drowned out by an iron whistle as you bleed profusely into the dirt. He kicks you onto your back, makes a closing remark and pulls the trigger once more for good measure.

Maybe you actually died in the Dark Room, like Rachel.

In reality, the train cuts you off. You come to a staggering halt as it soars by. Each connecting tram contains a piece of your life; like a slideshow, it plays before your eyes. This is end game. When you whip your head around, Jefferson is there. The moons illuminate the harshest parts of his face and cast his shadow long enough to stretch over Rachel’s grave. The screeching wheels against the tracks could never combat the noise in your head. Everything is happening too fast, too slow.

From only feet away, he points the gun at your head. Your body feels numb and hyperaware and maybe if you beg. Maybe if you beg enough, cry enough, scream enough he will let you live. You can admit how pitiful you are and take the blame entirely. You can be anything for him/do anything for him. Another chance. Whatever it takes.

When he takes a short step towards you, your knees give in and you collapse. He catches you, delaying your final fall to the ground. Time seems to slow for a moment. Your head spins. Before anything else can happen, a mantra of _I’m sorrys_ and _please don’ts_ escape your throat. His expression is unwavering against your pleas, bulletproof against your bullshit, through and through. You want to sprinkle laughter into your cries because you despise him as much as you idolize him, even now.

In whispers, he tells you how much he doesn’t want to do this. You swallow the deception he feeds you like every other time, for the last time. Being shot doesn’t feel like how you always imagined it would. It only starts to hurt when you look down and see blood bubbling from a hole in your belly.

The bullet to the brain never happens. You are almost relieved because you are still alive, which means there is still a chance. You allow Jefferson to lead you wherever he is leading you. At first, you do not notice the ground disappearing beneath you. It happens so fast. The feel of dirt and plastic. Beneath the plastic is mush and bones, and the smell – oh god, the smell – makes you gag. Rachel is here.

You begin to babble something, along the lines of, “I’ll tell them I did it”, but are interrupted by a second bullet to the belly. Any other outbursts are muffled by clumps of dirt and rocks. You cry for your dad because you are hurt and scared. You were always so hurt and scared but nobody ever listened. You only ever wanted attention but the good kind because you were always such a disappointment to your family. You only ever wanted to make your dad proud and have real friends and not have to rely on drugs because drugs killed Rachel you killed Rachel you must have or else this would not hurt so much.

Maybe this is all a nightmare and you will wake up in your bedroom or with Rachel at your side caressing you asking you what is wrong but there are maggots pouring out of her mouth and her eyes are gone and you are so sorry for everything you cannot say that enough how sorry you are sorry for everyone and every bad thing you have done you didn’t mean it you didn’t mean it you didn’t

At least you are not alone.


End file.
